


love still like a mission in the night

by decinq



Series: the messes of men [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants it to be easier, doesn’t want to be cutting crescents into his palm with his fingernails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love still like a mission in the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [warptimeandspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/warptimeandspace/gifts).



> this was written for grace, who said, 'would you write jack and bitty kissing in front of the falconers' and i thought, 'yes, yes, i definitely would,' and then i did. i thought that i could fit it nicely into this series, and so i did that too. 
> 
> unbeta'd, and all mistakes are my own. title taken from the benjamin francis leftwich song 'in the open'

Jack breaks four bones in his right hand six games before playoffs.

 

It happens near the end of the third period when Wilson smashes Jack into the boards behind the Washington net. His right hand gets caught, somehow, and it feels like all of Wilson’s weight is pressing right on where Jack’s glove is pulled down his wrist. He can feel the bones push and grind where the pressure of the boards and the pressure of his own body, his own stick, are too much. It happens quickly, Wilson doesn’t hold him there, just hits him hard before skating away. The barely-stitched-together seconds when their combined weight and combined speed collide against Jack’s hand are still enough to make Jack’s breath catch.

 

Sharpy scores a few seconds later, with no help from Jack, but they find each other’s space anyway. Jack says, “Way to go,” but his voice comes out ragged and breathy.

 

Sharpy’s brows draw together before he says, quiet even with barely any space between them, “Did he get you?”

 

“My hand,” Jack says. “Fucking hurts.”

 

“Shit,” Sharpy says, and when they get to the bench, Sharpy leans back to mutter to Dan. He waves Pete over before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He gives Jack a look, and Jack doesn’t know what his face looks like, but Sharpy rolls his eyes and says, “I wasn’t going to let you not tell them, you fuckin’ idiot.”

 

Jack leans back to catch Pete before he can get all the way over to Jack on the bench, doesn’t want a camera to pick it up. “I’d rather meet you in the tunnel, can it wait for a line change?”

 

“They’ll notice either way, kiddo,” Dan says. Jack hadn’t known he was paying attention. “Best to just get up. You can come back if Pete gives you the all clear.”

 

Jack’s not sure if he can even get his hand out of his glove, knows that Pete won’t be clearing him to play again tonight. There are only twelve minutes left, but those twelve minutes can mean everything.

 

He follows Pete down the tunnel, keeps his head down, watches his feet until the roar of the crowd seems less loud, muffled and far away. Pete says, “What happened?”

 

Jack shrugs. Pete holds the door open, and Jack steps into the empty locker room. “It wasn’t on purpose. Hand got caught between my stick and the boards.” Pete gestures for Jack to sit, so he does. He takes his helmet off with with his left hand, shakes his glove off before taking hold of his right wrist, turning his gloved-hand for Pete to look. “I don’t know if I can get this off,” he says, quiet, and Pete hums in the back of his throat.

 

“Is it your wrist or your fingers?”

 

Jack shakes his head. “Definitely not my wrist. Maybe fingers. Maybe my palm, I don’t know. It just--it hurts.”

 

“Want me to cut the glove off?”

 

“No,” Jack says. “I just can’t do it on my own. Should be okay.”

 

“If it’s really swollen, or if it looks bad, I just want you to remember that that doesn’t mean anything.”

 

Jack’s panic rises for the first time. He closes his eyes, concentrates on breathing through his nose. Pete says, “Jazz, on three, okay?”

 

Pete’s a fucking liar, because he unfolds Jack’s fingers when he’s still on the count of one, and by the time he counts two, Jack’s hand feels like it’s cramping and then the glove is off, and Jack’s hand curls back into itself.

 

“You okay?” Pete asks.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says, but it sounds rough. He nods.

  
  
  
  
  


Pete tells him to wait, so Jack sits at his stall and calls Bittle.

 

“Jack,” he says. “You left the ice. You okay?”

 

“I have to get x-rays,” he says. He has his eyes closed, his head resting against the wall behind him. Hearing Bittle’s voice, even just over the phone, is already making him feel better.

 

“Oh. I--Jack, I’m sorry.”

 

“Not your fault,” Jack says. “Accident. I just…” His breath rattles in his lungs, and he gives a shaky sigh. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he says. “Just--How was class?”

 

There’s a pause on the line, and then Jack hears the click of a door on the other side, and then Bittle says, “Not bad. Had a meeting with my advisor and the faculty head. They’re going to let me declare the double, I think. They said they’d get back to me, but Sarah said she thinks it went well.”

 

“That’s great,” Jack says, meaning it.

 

“Better news,” Bittle says. “Even if you’re not playing, I can still come up next weekend.”

 

“Your group project meeting got moved?”

 

“I’m very persuasive,” Bittle says, and Jack smiles.

 

“How much baking did you have to do?”

 

“I do not have to do baking ever.”

 

Jack laughs. “Right, of course, my bad. How much baking did you not have to do to convince your group, as a non-bribe, to move your meeting?”

 

Bittle laughs, giggles into the phone, and Jack aches to be there with him. “I made them each a batch of cookies. It was nothing.”

 

“I can pick you up at the train, then?”

 

“Sure,” Bittle says. “There’s one that leaves at 8:30, should get there just before 10, if that works.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Won’t be playing, probably. Even if it’s not bad, my guess is that Dan’ll make me wait for playoffs anyway.”

 

“Rightfully so,” Bittle says, then, “I’m sorry that happened. The hit didn’t look dirty.”

 

“Shit luck,” Jack says, suddenly exhausted. There are voices coming from the hall, and then the door swings open. Dartmen’s got his arm over Webs’ shoulder, and Webs is blushing wildly. “Sorry,” Jack says. “Game’s done. Guys’re back, Pete’ll probably usher me out in a minute.”

 

“Let me know how it goes,” Bittle says. “I’ll be awake for a few more hours working on this presentation.”

 

“Okay,” Jack says. Sharpy sits beside him in his stall, and mouths “Eric?” to Jack. Jack nods, and says, “I’ll let you know. Love you.”

 

“Love you too,” Bittle says. “I hope it goes as smoothly as it can.”

 

“Me too. Night.”

 

Dartmen wolf whistles the second Jack hits the end call button, and says, “Jacky boy! You stud, who was that?”

 

“I--” Jack starts, and Sharpy doesn’t even hesitate before saying, “Darth why’re you so hard for Jazzy’s mom?”

 

“Jesus,” Jack says, and Triber snorts from his stall across the room.

 

“Alicia Zimmermann is a beautiful woman,” Darth says, and Sharpy laughs.

 

“Nice try,” he says, and Jack rolls his eyes.

 

“Will one of you dipshits tell me how the rest of that game went?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_whats the verdict, doc?_ Sharpy sends when Jack’s on his way home in the back of a cab.

 

 _broken in four spots_ Jack sends back. _but pete thinks i should be able to play w it anyway by the first round_

_cool_ Sharpy says. _could be worse i guess_

Jack is about to slip his phone into his pocket when it buzzes again. _u ever gna tell the guys? they wouldn’t be dicks abt it_

_honestly i just don’t know how_ Jack replies. Then, because Sharpy’s basically his best friend in Providence, he also sends _we’ve talked about it. we’re not gonna be public or anything, but we’re not hiding from our friends either._

 

 _like a bandaid, kiddo,_ Sharpy replies.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Jack picks Bittle up from the train just before 10 AM. He poses for a few photos for fans while he’s waiting, signs a kid’s hat, but after he says that he’s waiting for someone, people give him space.

 

When he sees Bittle step off the train, his palms get sweaty. He has butterflies in his stomach. He desperately hopes that one day he will be brave and stable enough to be public about this, because all he wants is to kiss Bittle and touch Bittle and tell anyone who will listen about how much he loves Bittle.

 

He wants it to be easier, doesn’t want to be cutting crescents into his palm with his fingernails.

 

Bittle smiles at him, and Jack can’t help the smile that tugs at his cheeks. Jack takes Bittle’s bag from his hands, and Bittle knocks his shoulder into Jack’s arm. “I’m driving,” Bittle says.

 

Jack huffs, and then Bittle snorts. “Your hand is broken, I hate that you even drove here.”

 

“It’s fine,” Jack says. “Prius is automatic. It’s not hard.”

 

“Too bad,” Bittle says. When they get closer to the car, they’re mostly alone in the parking lot. Jack pops the trunk with the button on the keys, then tosses them to Bittle. Before Bittle can open the driver’s side door, Jack looks around quickly, then crowds into Bittle’s space. Bittle half turns into him, and says, “Jack...”

 

“I missed you,” Jack says. “I just--” He presses his nose into Bittle’s hair then says, “I love you.” He stands back from Bittle, admires the blush that’s rising from his neck to his cheeks.

 

Bittle opens the door, and Jack walks around to the other side, and gets in. He struggles with his seatbelt until Bittle reaches over him and does it up for him. “I love you too,” Bittle says. He pats Jack’s arm before turning on the car. Jack rests his hand on Bittle’s leg and leaves it there for the whole drive back to Jack’s apartment.

  
  
  


 

They sit in the box with management for the game, but stay back from the front, take up a table with a couple of chairs near the back. George and Bittle each have a glass of wine, talk about what they’re expecting from the Western Conference teams. Jack watches the game and is proud of his team despite his longing to be on the ice with them.

 

“He’s better with you around,” he hears George say to Bittle. “Not wound so tight.”

 

Jack watches Bittle blush from the corner of his eye. “He works hard,” Bittle says, and Jack’s not sure what he means by it, but George looks like she does, and she nods before agreeing.

  
  
  
  
  


“They want you for press,” Matt says with a few minutes left in the third. “I can take you down now?”

 

“Sure,” Jack says. He nudges Bittle with his foot. “You coming?”

 

“Yeah?” Bittle asks.

 

Jack shrugs, looks to George, who smiles, nods slightly. “Sure. Sharpy misses you.”

 

“It was nice seeing you,” Bittle says to George, and she smiles at him.

 

“You too, sweetie. Have a good rest of your visit.”

 

They beat the Panthers 2-0 at the end of regulation. Jack gives the media his praise to his team, his regret about not being on the ice with them, the same hopeful spiel that he’s been giving since he was hurt. When he’s done, he finds Bittle in the tunnel near the locker room.

 

He steers Bittle into the locker room with his hands on his shoulders, and the guys who aren’t in the showers holler at them.

 

“Eric!” Sharpy says. “Jackabelle didn’t tell me you were gonna be here.”

 

Bittle smiles. “Hey, Sharpy.” Jack knows that Bittle still feels a bit awestruck about being pals with Sharpy, but Jack also knows that Sharpy is genuinely fond of him.

 

“Didn’t wanna over-excite you and give you a heart attack, you know, because you’re elderly,” Jack says. Jack lets his wrapped up right hand fall over Bittle’s shoulders. Triber’s eyebrows go up, but Jack ignores it and says, “You guys did good.”

 

“Y’all wanna get dinner?” Webs asks. “I’m fucking starving.”

 

“I’ll text Abby,” Sharpy says. “If I tell her it’s because you’re here,” he says, pointing to Bittle, “she’ll understand. She’ll be jealous, but she’ll understand.”

 

Bittle’s cheeks colour slightly, and he nods, so Jack smiles. “Where to? I can call ahead for a table. For all of us?”

 

There are a few nos from around the room, but the final twelve yeses are still worth calling ahead for. They argue for a few minutes until Bittle says, “What about that steak place we went to last time?”

 

“I don’t know what place you’re talking about,” Webs says, “but I am fucking in.”

 

Jack slips into the empty hall to phone ahead about getting a table. He doesn’t notice Bittle follow him out until he feels his hand on the small of Jack’s back. Jack thanks the girl on the other end of the phone, says, “Yeah, we’ll definitely be there within the half hour,” while pressing lightly into Bittle’s touch.

 

“You’re still a good captain,” Bittle says. “I never doubted it, but you’re different with them. But still really good.”

 

Jack leans his shoulder against the wall behind him, turns to face Bittle. He runs his hand over the shell of Bittle’s ear, and says, “Thank you.”

 

“I forget, sometimes,” Bittle says, leaning his cheek into Jack’s hand. “What it was like. You’re a good leader, they all respect you a lot.”

 

“I--” Jack stutters, because he knows it’s true. “Practice, I guess,” he says. Bittle smiles up at him, moves to step back when the voices from the locker room carry out into the hall. Jack steps forward towards Bittle, leans forward to gently press his lips to the corner of Bittle mouth. Bittle smiles against Jack’s lips, and then Jack hears Dartmen say, “Benny, you owe me twenty bucks.”

 

“The fuck I do,” Hacter says, but Jack is still crowding Bittle’s space when the rest of their dinner party falls into the hallway.

 

Jack doesn’t blush, doesn’t stutter. Hacter’s eyes are a bit wide, but Webs is smiling softly at his feet. He pushes himself off the wall, wraps his arm around Bittle shoulders, and Bittle pinches Jack’s side when Jack says, “Tell me when you morons are ready to get your jaws off the floor and then we can get going.”

 

Sharpy barks a laugh, and says, “Yeah, yeah, alright Jazzy, we got it.”

 

“They’re holding us a table at Fleming’s,” Jack says.

  
  
  
  
  


Bittle kisses Jack once they get to the car, holds Jack’s face between his hands, and presses his lips to Jack’s sweetly. He pulls back just enough to run his nose along Jack’s and Jack puts his hand over Bittle’s. “Thank you,” Bittle says. Whatever Bittle is feeling, Jack thinks he feels it too; he feels lighter than he has in a long time, safe, his heart full to bursting.

 

“Yeah?” Jack asks. Bittle kisses him again, just a gentle press of his lips to Jack’s, before he sits properly, buckles himself in and turns on the car.

 

“Yeah,” Bittle says.

  
  
  


Jack is cleared to play by the first game of the first round. They still fall out of the playoffs in the second round, but it’s okay, because Bittle graduates, moves his stuff into Jack’s apartment. They have a barbecue once all of Bittle’s boxes are unpacked. The guys who are still in town come out, and Jack grills burgers on the balcony.

 

Sharpy says, “I’m really proud of you,” and Jack startles.

 

“Christ,” Jack says.

 

“Sorry,” Sharpy says. “You guys look really happy.”

 

Jack smiles, nods. “Yeah. I am.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
